


bloom's duality

by Xirdneth



Series: on the edge of actuality [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A little, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Lesbian Character, Canon Lesbian Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Finale, Vignettes, Will doesn't have a physical presence but is felt a lot if that makes sense, due to Margot and Alana just being supportive wives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12551272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirdneth/pseuds/Xirdneth
Summary: [Sequel to Guillotine's Glint.]Despite the threat of Hannibal's promise dangling over her head, Alana refuses to simply sit and be a victim. Though as soon as she achieves some semblance of peace, a figure from the past threatens to demolish it entirely.





	bloom's duality

 

_I can't lose this. I can't lose you._

     Margot's words remain imprinted on the fleshy fabric of her brain; when she closes her eyes to sleep, fitfully, they are illuminated on the red screen of her eyelids. Bright, stark white; white as stars. Navigation through the grim and murky waters of their hiding. In her dreams, she sees her family, becalmed on a red sea, a black mass surging from the depth. It has no face, but she knows it is him. The kraken has awoken, and has come for his pay. All the while, Alana is marooned on an island of her own creation, frozen as she watches those foul appendages pull her family deep into its toothed maw. Entirely helpless.

     She wakes up with a scream in her throat, and Margot hovering over above her, haloed by the overhead light. Her eyes are wide, terrified, wet with fear. Morgan is stirring, his dreamscape disturbed. “Bad dream?” Margot's hands are so soft, fingers brushing along the dip and curve of her cheekbone.

     “Bad dream,” she echoes, voice weakened, raw, as if she really had been screaming. She seeks comfort in a kiss, chaste and brief. “I think I'll take watch now.”

     Something has to be done about this.

 

*

 

She invests in a trainer, taming her paranoia about interacting with others. While it is incredibly unlikely Hannibal intends to enact his plans through a mere idol, one can never be too certain. To allow someone into her sanctuary is to create a leak in the boat. But it must be done. If she is doomed to be a sitting duck, she might as well be one that can fight back.

 

*

 

 _Aleksandra_ is her name. A bulky Russian woman, she towers above them, so much so that her blonde hair, cropped short, almost touches the ceiling. Despite the toughness that emanates from every curve of muscle, Morgan takes an instant liking to her. Alana sees it as a good omen.

     ( _A good omen is still an omen_ , says some small part of her.)

 

*

 

Aleksandra stays with them. She instills a nutrition plan for she and Margot; things that will imbue them with strength, stamina, enough protein to carry them through the absolutely _ruthless_ training plan she has in mind. At night, when Margot is sleeping, Alana trains in the living room. First, building tolerance, stamina; warm ups, muscle building, elasticity. Reflex training. Basic combat. Then, into styles: _krav maga, kung fu, taekwondo_ , _boxing_ ; the list is endless, and Aleksandra skips nothing. She knits each style together seamlessly, so that Alana may find what best suits her. She trains until the sun rises and then some, and only rests when the night comes round to. Her exhaustion kills any dream, and she is glad for it.

 

*

 

She finds time for tenderness regardless. Devoting her life to protection can be as double-edged as devoting her life to paranoia. Instead, she employs Aleksandra's extra time to look after Morgan. They play games in the living room or what could be—tentatively—called the garden, while she has alone time with her wife. There, she allows herself to kiss every place that has gone unkissed for so long ( _too_ long), to worship Margot's soft skin, scarred belly, the curves of her thighs. She kisses and licks and paints patterns with her fingertips along the canvas of her wife, and allows herself to be lost in the world of her body, in the world of pleasure that has been alien to them for so long. Other times, they merely sit in silence, enjoying the sound of their slow heartbeats, appreciating each rise brought on by their breath. The reminder that they are here and alive, and for the moment, at peace.

     When Margot's eyelids become heavy with sleep, Alana finds herself staring, reverant. _I'd do anything for you_ , her heart sings a hymn. _God, I'd do anything for you._

 

*

 

 

Margot and Aleksandra are in the bedroom, which doubles as a playroom for Morgan nowadays, when the door knocks. Alana freezes, her knife stagnating, only half-way through the cucumber. Nobody is supposed to knock on the door. _Nobody is supposed to know where they are_. A small voice, that same voice, is tearing her apart for her foolishness, but she retains a calm visage despite herself. She inhales through her teeth, recalling everything Aleksandra taught her, and goes to the door, bracing herself for the worst.

     But she does not come face to face with the monster who has haunted her dreams. She comes face to face with its' psychiatrist.

     She shuts the door in Bedelia du Maurier's face.

 

*

 

Minutes pass, maybe few, maybe many. All Alana knows is that the quiet rumble of life in the bedroom is the most beautiful thing she's ever heard, that her heart is beating louder and faster than it has even post-nightmare, and that Hannibal Lecter's psychiatrist is, _somehow_ , on her doorstep. Part of her wants to believe it was merely some sort of illusion; an invention of stress. Some diluted madness taking form in the most bizarre shape imaginable. After all, why—and _how_? – is Bedelia du Maurier on her _doorstep_?

     She takes a steadying breath. Only one way to find out. She opens the door, and finds that Bedelia is still standing there, her glacial expression betrayed by the rise of her eyebrow. She's miffed. “That was rude, Doctor Bloom,” she says, voice stiff and velveteen all at once. Her skin crawls at the very word. It _must_ be deliberate. Instead of confronting that particular turn of phrase, she affixes a sharply polite smile to her face. Out of Bedelia's line of sight, Alana's knuckles are blanching against the doorframe. She half-expects it to splinter and snap beneath the pressure of her.

     “My apologies, Doctor du Maurier. You took me quite off guard.”

     “I imagine so.” Without moving, Bedelia's eyes explore what they can of Alana's home. “May I come in?”

     Hidden beneath the pale pink of Alana's lips, her teeth are grinding. Then: “I don't see why not.”

 

*

 

“You have a _quaint_ little home.”

     “I was in the mood for something smaller.” _Safer_. Less shadowy corners for Hannibal to lurk in.

     “I can imagine,” Bedelia purrs, eyes ceasing their roaming of the living room and settling on Alana's gaze. She has striking eyes. The colour of ice. Just as cold, too.

     There is a silence.

     “Do you have any wine?”

     She chooses to ignore that. “Why are you here?” Alana asks, and her voice is quiet. Still, but with the threat of a tremble. A storm brewing in the column of her throat. “How did you find us?”

     Bedelia opens her mouth to speak, but finds herself interrupted.

     “Alana, are you done with those snacks—“ her words find themselves decapitated mid-sentence. “ _Alana_ ,” she repeats, her voice carrying the threat of fear.

     “Margot,” comes her quiet response, her gaze unmoving from Bedelia. She trusts her wife. She does not trust Bedelia du Maurier. “Make sure Morgan and Aleksandra stay in the room.”

     Margot lingers, uncertain, but her doubt is ephemeral; she leaves, silent as a ghost.

     “You seem to be wary of me,” Bedelia notes, “despite the fact we are both victims of the same man.”

     A mirthless _hm_ , one that jerks her lips in a way that could _almost_ pass for a smirk. “You don't strike me as the victim type, Doctor du Maurier.”

     “If I did, would you enjoy my company more?” the graceful tilt of her head; hair pools over her blouse like liquid gold. “As I recall, that appears to be your type.”

     She narrows her eyes, contrasting the almost feline dip of Bedelia's nude-dusted lids. “How did you find us?”

     “My apologies, I seem to have struck a nerve.” Alana can see, so very clearly, why Hannibal decided to bring her along with him on his Florence escapades. Whatever hope she had that the stories were true is distinguished; her doubts have flared into a great and angry beast. There is something in her eyes, something bright and cruel and cold, that suggests they have never once been blind to Hannibal's nature. “You're a bright woman, Doctor Bloom. I'm certain you can piece together a suitable answer.”

     “Aleksandra? She's been off the grid since she got here.”

     Her simpering smile patronizes her, and Alana's voicebox bobs in her throat. “Not off the grid enough.” Bedelia moves then, as slow as a cat on the prowl. Alana half-expects her pupils to narrow to slits, black knives ready to pierce and carve. She leans forward, and even the slide of her hair manages to look predatory and controlled. Her fingers lace together, French tips digging into the vanille crème of her own skin. “Do you want to know why I came here? Why I looked for you?” She waits for no answer. “I wanted to know _if I could_. Because if I can find you, _so can they_.”

     Her breath stutters, her eyes blowing wider than they ought to – a shot of fear, adrenaline pumping through her blood, then followed by a relief. _They,_ meaning not only Hannibal; _they_ , meaning Will is alive. Despite the years, there remains something tender for Will Graham yet. She hopes he can say the same for her. “They survived.”

     “Unfortunately so.” It is Bedelia's turn to narrow her eyes, blonde lashes almost ghosting along the curve of her cheekbone. “I do hope that little response is fear, and nothing else. Like I said, you're a bright woman.”

     Her confidence is blooming, piece by piece, as things fall into place: her own strength, her wife's, Will's survival. She says nothing, but her thoughts must show on her face, for Bedelia's glacial demeanour fractures for only a moment, eyebrows furrowing.

     “Your faith, while … _admirable_ ,” she barely restrains a sneer, “is misplaced, Doctor Bloom. The Will Graham that rose out of that water is not the one you knew. He is something new and sharp. One has to wonder what lurks in the mind of the one who walks willingly by Hannibal Lecter's side.”

     “Yes,” Alana stares deep into those near phosphorescent eyes, as pointed as a blade, “one does.”

     Spider-web fractures crack along the porcelain of Bedelia du Maurier's facade, exposing veins of frustration. Her eyes are alight, almost. Jaw hard-set, she says, with a voice brittle as winter: “You understand nothing of the man who holds your fate in one hand and scissors in the other.”

     “He doesn't hold my fate. _I do_.”

     Is that admiration, there, glimmering alongside the slow-burning anger? Perhaps. “And here I had assumed your naivete had shattered along your pelvis.” Bedelia lets out a sigh that falls somewhere between _suffering_ and _irritated_ , gaze breaking from Alana's only to rise to the heavens before falling to where her legs sit, primly crossed. “I see that I will have to force you to see what he _really_ is.” She unfolds herself, only to set about fiddling with, presumably, her stocking. Alana watches on, expression morphing into a deeper state of vexation with each passing second. Then, in a moment of stark shock, Bedelia separates her leg and sets it to the side. Her gaze is unflinching, but there is a vulnerability there. Raw as a mineral, jagged and sharp.

     “ _This_ is what they are capable of. What Will Graham is capable of.”

     “He did that to you?” Alana's voice catches in her throat, only escaping in the shape of a whisper.

     “I presume the _cooking_ of it was all Hannibal, but he certainly helped in eating it.”

     A sharp stab of nausea: acid pools in her stomach as her skin cools.

     “Did he tell you of his visits to me? How he took Hannibal's role as my singular patient?”

     “No.” She swallows. “He didn't.”

     Bedelia tilts her head, hair shifting with it. Something violent flashes in her eyes. It almost appears to be something like satisfaction. “An interesting thing, that, isn't it? I must admit, I don't blame him. Not after the things we discussed. Do you know what he said to me, on the eve of Hannibal's escape?”

     Alana is quiet.

     “He looked me in the eyes, Doctor Bloom, and said: _meat's back on the menu_.”

 

*

 

“I'm sorry.”

     “What for?”

     “For this. For everything. If it weren't for me...”

     “If it weren't for you, I'd have been torn apart and eaten alive by _pigs_. Alana, you brought light into my world when there was only darkness. You redefined what _family_ meant for me. You showed me what _love_ is. Don't ever apologize for this. For us. For Morgan. I'd follow you around the world.”

     Alana offers a weak smile, though the tears on her face aren't wholly from fear anymore. “You might have to.”

     “So be it.”

 

*

 

The world has shifted. Their world has shifted.

     Bedelia du Maurier's words lie side by side Margot's on the canvas of her lids. In her dreams, she is still marooned. Will Graham appears as if from air, all light and divinity. _Will,_ she says, voice thrumming with relief, _Will, thank God you're here. You have to help me_. The water is lapping at the white sand, staining it red, then black; it grows thicker and thicker. Margot's screams grow loud and desperate as Will's gaze remains indecipherable, the entirety of his eyes blown out by light. _Please,_ and she reaches out for him, her friend, her conspirator, and begs.

 _Oh, Alana_ , he hums in that voice, yet it doesn't sound like him. It sounds new and terrifying. He takes her hand, and his skin is burning. _There are no Gods here. Not anymore_.

     He pushes her into the black sea.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, so forgive any mistakes! I hope you enjoyed this fic, and its predecessor, and if you did please show support by commenting, leaving kudos, etc. I appreciate every sign you enjoy it! It inspires me to continue on writing!
> 
> If, for any reason, you wish to contact me on Tumblr, I'm @bedannigram! Come say hi!


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